


Courfeyrac has always been happy

by sassy_ninja (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: ADHD, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Drinking, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Malaysian!Courfeyrac, Running Away, Suicide, Unrequited Love, chinese!Bahorel, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7883863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sassy_ninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac has always been happy, his smile present even on the darkest of days ready to lift Les Amis up, even it’s on the last day of finals and Courfeyrac was crumbling. That was his job as centre after all</p><p>But Courfeyrac was not quite the human sponge that everyone seemed to think he was, eventually the fear he bottled up came seeping out and crept around the corners of his mind. Still he battled on, covering up his fatigue with a few careful dabs of concealer and a colourful knitted jumper.<br/>Some days he had to fight not to cry himself into the floor during meetings and not let his jaw tremble with the sheer terror that one day his friends would leave a broken Courfeyrac behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courfeyrac has always been happy

Courfeyrac had always been happy, his smile present even on the darkest of days ready to lift Les Amis up, even it was on the last day of finals and Courfeyrac was crumbling. That was his job as centre after all, but more than that, Courf couldn’t stand the sight of his friends with troubles bending their too young shoulders. He couldn’t see their faces grimaced in sadness but at the same time knew when it was right to simply be shoulder to cry on.

He seemed to absorb the hatred thrown his way and laugh off all his troubles.

But Courfeyrac was not quite the human sponge that everyone seemed to think he was, eventually the fear he bottled up came seeping out and crept around the corners of his mind. Still he battled on, covering up his fatigue with a few careful dabs of concealer and a colourful knitted jumper. Some days he had to fight not to cry himself into the floor during meetings and not let his jaw tremble with the sheer terror that one day his friends would leave a broken Courfeyrac behind. Simply replace him with another smiling face; anyone could do what he does after all.

Today was one of those days; the autumn leaves were falling quickly while Courf rode his orange moped to the Musain, a stressed out Feuilly had lovingly doodled on the bike with a cheap marker, staining it to the distress of the engineer at its yearly check up.  
The wind was turning bitter and snatched at his scarf, slightly too long and more hole than wool. It was Grantaire’s first and last disastrous attempt at knitting, and Courf loved it. R had twined his heart into the threads just as he did with his art and Courfeyrac saw it on par with the artworks hanging in Louvre. It made him smile and that was rare enough nowadays.

Of course his friends made him smile, but that fear kept on peeking its head around the corner whispering ugly thoughts into Courf’s ear. It became a harder and harder battle to stop that fear from stepping out from the shadows, to stop it from trailing its fingers along Courf’s shoulder and curling itself around him like a sickness.

“Stop it,” he scolded himself, sending the fear scuttling away again to feed on his insecurities in the back of his mind, he could hear its spindly legs tapping away at his worries, chewing on his uncertainty, “I’m going crazy,” he whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair he repainted his smile and entered the Musain.

 

“Is it just me or does Courf look really bad today,” Enjolras murmured to Combeferre, who was diligently typing away.

“He looks tired,” was the short reply, “We’re all tired Enj, we’ve been planning this protest for months, and actually we’re still planning it. Or we were until you started talking about Courf.”

“But, Ferre, he looks worse than tired, he looks like he’s gonna collapse at any moment.” Ferre couldn’t help but smile, Enjolras was more caring than he let on, ‘it damages my reputation of the fearless leader’ he says, so tearing his eyes away from the email he was typing to the counsel again, and he glanced at Courf.

“Fuck,” was his only reply.

“Told you,” snorted Enjolras, frowning at his laptop, “The counsel says they need more confirmation of approximately how many people will be there, haven’t we already told them that we’re expecting almost a 500 protesters? And elegant response Shakespeare.”

Courf glanced over at the duo then, the conversation with Bossuet and Joly had somewhat lulled and he waved.

“Jehan's away at the poetry convention in London until next week right?” Enjolras asked, eyes not leaving his screen, “We need to have his section for the pamphlet by the end of the month if we have any hope of printing them all by the planned protest date. Also he would be able to cheer Courf up, or at least get him to spill his soul when they get back.”

Enjolras always felt as if he couldn’t be as close with Courf anymore, his intimate touches seemed to intrude on the little poet’s territory or make R’s eyebrows hide themselves in his hair.

He hated it, having to stop himself from draping himself over Courf and placing kisses on the top of his head, he had always been the most physically intimate with Courf, it had calmed Enjolras, having him there to wrap Enjolras tight in a hug in away that no one else but Courfeyrac could.

He had seen Courf’s highs and lows, fought their demons together, fought the Government together, done everything together until Courf started getting doe eyed at Jehan and Enjolras felt his heart flutter at the sight of Grantaire. But I suppose they couldn’t be platonic lovers fighting the patriarchy forever. Sadly.

“Stop thinking so hard, you’ll damage yourself,” came the snide reply from Grantaire, he scooting forwards to kiss Enjolras’s neck.

“You smell of vodka,” he grimaced, leaning back with an exaggerated frown, he still placed a brief kiss on his cheek, and with a tipsy grin Grantaire retreated back into the scrum of festivities.

There was no real need to do any work in today’s meeting, the first Friday after University had finally slunk away already ruled out even the thought of work. Plus everyone knew their duties for the looming protest; even Combeferre had given up for the night and was currently engaged in some sort of drunken duel with Marius. With a roll of his eyes Enjolras looked back at the speech he was re-writing yet again, his sentences just didn’t seem to flow today, his words disjointed, the loud Nicki Minaj that someone (read Bahorel) had started pumping out the speaker system was not exactly helping either.

“Hey, Enj, time to get off that computer and relax,” Courf was somehow dragging him out of the booth having already saved his word document,

“How? What?”

“Mhmm I’m just magical like that,” Courf, grinned, leading Enjolras out of the Musain, it had been converted from a cosy café where students could debate their ideas about the injustices of the world into a soulless nightclub in a matter of hours.

“Who the hell brought strobe lights?” he hissed, staring in horror at his friends’ antics through the large windows. Courf just shrugged, reaching into his jacket for a packet of cigarettes,

“You want one?”

“I thought you quit.”

“I did.” Courf slumped on his shoulder, cigarette slowly drifting to ash in his fingers,

“Jehan's gonna be upset.”

“Well not everything I do has to be about them then,” came the spiteful reply, tension drawing sharp lines in his shoulders, with a sigh Enjolras plucked the cigarette out of Courf’s fingers and crushed it into the floor with the heel of his boot.

“The rest of them please.”

The box was tucked away in Enjolras’s jacket to be disposed of later; there were more important things to be dealt with now.

“You’re not alright are you Courf?”

“Jeez is it that obvious?”

“It is to me.” Enjolras glanced at him before leading him away from the Musain and towards the park; maybe they could find an ice-cream place that was still open even though it was almost midnight and their breaths turned to smoke in the air.

Inside the Musain, Grantaire came looking for his boyfriend again, he was in need of a snuggle and perhaps an early night but all he found was Enjolras’s computer. Perhaps if he had looked out the window he could have seen a figure in red leading the heart of the party away. Perhaps he did and perhaps he felt a twinge in his heart. That even though the love he held for Enjolras was true, Enjolras would always pick his friends over the poor drunkard at the bar.

Courfeyrac could hear his fear again, whispering all the things Enjolras could say to him, be happier, crawling out from behind the corner.

“Remember when we were little and we used to play knights, before we discovered the horrors of the aristocracy of course.”

“Of course," snorted Courf, rolling his eyes and pulling his scarf up over his nose.

“Well, um, I don’t really know what to say, I mean I couldn’t find my ADHD meds today, I think I forgot them at our flat but I was staying with Grantaire, so, well. I’m not exactly the best person to make you feel better, and I was planning to make that a whole story but I forgot what I was going to say so maybe the fond childhood memory will-,”

“You don’t need to ramble with me Enj, you probably left your meds on your shelf, that’s where it is every time.”

There was a defiant silence, sudden and almost jarring. They knew almost everything about each other. Courfeyrac and Enjolras were after all the founding members of Les Amis. They had known each other since a very long time ago, neither of them could quite figure out the time but it was someplace in-between reception and the unspeakable incident regarding dangerous flying books.

Enjolras would not have even been the young revolutionary he was now without Courf, for if Enjolras is the bright fire of revolution then Courfeyrac would the keeper of the flames. Watching and guarding until he too fell into ash.

 

(Enjolras remembered the exact time he realised that not all people were equal. Courfeyrac’s mother had walked the two boys to school and set off to work, she had started a small software company now worth millions. She was the figurehead for successful French Muslim woman, the breadwinner for her family; she had a cool temper and firm hands. They had found a small snail crawling on the road and relocated it to a nearby bush, the sun was shinning and even the brisk breeze couldn’t dampen their childish moods.

“Bye bye maman!” Courfeyrac had crowed in his funny English, waving as he scampered towards the building. Then a man walked over, grabbed her, grabbed his mother and screamed, he pushed her and spat on her, trying to rip off her headscarf. In his mind, it was clear, being pushed back by a teacher who merely eyed the scene coolly.

Muslim scum.)

 

It made the hairs on Enjolras’s arms stand on end, the look of horror on his friend’s face. Why would someone do that, especially to someone as nice as Courf’s mum? He hated the way his friend dismissed his culture since then, trying hard to look as ‘french’ as he could. ' _You are French though_ ', he muttered, wrinkling his nose at Courf’s new light brown hair, the careful hours spent out of the sun to preserve his pale skin, ' _you’re just as French as all the other people in France'_.

 _'Not to them'_ , he had smiled, _'to them I'm just a foreigner'_.

They had relocated themselves from the chilly park bench back to their shared flat, the lights spluttered themselves to life, when they entered, hard to find a nice three bedroom flat near both the UPMC (University Pierre and Marie Curie) and ENS. Well at least it was cosy.

Courfeyrac slouched onto the struggling sofa, patting the place in front of him, “let me plait your hair?” he grinned, already fishing out a hairbrush and far too many pins.

“What’s wrong Courf?” whispered Enjolras, flicking through Netflix until he found some silly rom com that he knew Courf would like.

“Je ne sais pas, Enjolras,” he murmured, his native tongue slipping back in like the crooning of a lullaby, stilling the room and the passion in their blood “C’est très compliqué.”

“Comment parler de tu essayer d'expliquer?”

“I just feel so scared, like all that I do can all be replaced by another kind soul willing to give to the cause. Je ne sais pas. Je crains que tu pouvez me remplacer.”

A booming laugh erupts from Enjolras, startling the silence that had settled between them, “Tu ête stupide, how could we ever replace you? There is not one person in the world with a heart like yours.”

The fear that had scuttled around Courf’s mind suddenly went still, sure it would return, but he believed in Enjolras, he believed him. There were tears, flooding out of his eyes and dripping onto Enjolras’s hair, and all Enjolras could do was to hold him, that was all he could ever do. People could not be fixed as easy as Governments.

As he watched Courf’s cry he remembered the last time he had cried. He started singing as the memory surged inside him, of course he sang the Marseilles, it startled a laugh out of Courf, who joined him, voice still stained with tears. As teenagers they had both joined a choir, although Courf far preferred the piano, he had a soaring tenor voice and had sung with Enjolras but had been kicked out when the choirmaster saw Courf’s mother’s headscarf. That evening the choir had lost its two best singers.

They sang now, moving from song to song in elated harmony, laughing as they went.

 

Combeferre had no idea where his two best friends were. They had slipped into the darkness without even bringing their things, so he trudged home hugging Enjolras’s laptop to his chest. Vodka and wine surged in his blood; his glasses slipping as he almost ran into a lamppost, again. Ferre could usually hold his alcohol, not so much with a goading Grantaire sitting on his shoulder, devil, whatever.

He could hear singing and he paused to listen to it, sinking onto the ground in wonder. He had never been able to sing, he could barely control his own arms let alone his voice box, Enjolras and Courf could sing.They sung wonderfully, they played instruments, they spoke with all the eloquence and passion in the world. Combeferre was neither captivating nor enthralling; you wouldn’t look twice at him, for his face was plain but kind. Once, Feuilly had tried to dreadlock his hair, it had failed miserably, he had to shave his head and now his natural hair made him even more plain.

Those were all lies; to Les Amis he was the guide. He was the kind heart to lead them on, he had pushed Enjolras and Courfeyrac away from the fringes of the extreme left, lead Feuilly from despair, ensured Bahorel could get patched up after his many brawls, comforted Joly during days were even Bossuet could do nothing.

As he lay on that cold pavement, his wire glasses slipped from his head. They had been almost broken by many things that he did, yet he had worn them since he was eighteen, a gift from Courf that had seen him through his worse years. But all gifts from Courf lasted longer than you would think, they seemed to be parts of him that he had descended from heaven to bless you with. If Enjolras were Apollo, then surely Courfeyrac would be Hermes, for he delivered souls to the safety of the Underworld.

 

“Combeferre?”

“Is Ferre outside?”

“Yeah he’s lying on the pavement, d’you think we should get him?”

“Yes, hurry up Courf.”

“He’s an idiot maybe we should just leave him there.”

“Get your coat on.”

“Eeeennnjjjooolllrrraassss.”

“Michel de Courfeyrac, get your arse inside that coat and outside now.”

The duo managed to shuffle their way outside followed by a constant bickering about who would carry him.

“We wouldn’t leave you outside.”

“But Ferre’s big.”

“Get his other leg for me will you?”

“Oh God, we need to supervise this guy when he drinks, fucking lightweight.”

They settled him into his bed, curled up around him, still muttering to each other as he slumbered on.

“I’m glad we’re friends Enjolras,” Courf muttered, fiddling with Ferre’s hair and causing him to snort in his sleep.

“I think we all need each other, we all need you Courfeyrac.” He whispered back, smiling at his friend, more like his brother.

It was then that the tears slipped out with a spluttered excuse, as he rushed off to the toilet, Michel Courfeyrac did not cry, not when Enjolras told him he was important, not over little things like that. But he lied to himself even, for he had already cried two times this afternoon. The tears made their way down his arms, oh how he hated himself sometimes, the scars on his wrists only made that hatred visible.

You can’t be French you’re an Arab.

The cage that had trapped him for his youth, but Courfeyrac had never even ventured to the Middle East, his family was mostly Malaysian, but his father had a French grandfather, thus the name ‘de Courfeyrac’. He had been trapped, his mother harassed, his nationality mocked, patria was as cold and dead as the stones of the Notre Dame. He had spent much of teenage years dying his hair and keeping his skin as pale as he could, he remembered Enjolras watching with a frown. He never judged, never helped either, but he was the one who wiped away tears and held him as he tried to shake out the things he couldn’t change.

Oh how he dreamed though, the days where he would be French and proud, where he could stand in the centre of the world, he would no longer be the one peering in the edges, grasping at what some people were given at birth. No before birth, at the moment they were given the colour of their skin and the shape of their face. One day, France would be equal and good and Patria will rise as we tear down her bonds. If Courfeyrac could take even the smallest step towards that he would be beyond pleased.

“Courf?” Came a small voice from beyond the toilet door, “You going to come outside and have a hug?”

There wasn’t really a choice to it. The three of them all gravitated towards each other as if they were all magnets, capable of repelling and attracting in equal strength. And as Combeferre woke the next morning with hell throbbing between his eyes, somehow, he found himself unable to move. Unable to disturb the peace that had fallen amongst the three as he lay sandwiched. He slid away as quietly as he could and tried to come back as swiftly as possible, the strength those two gave him was unbelievable even with their faults.

They were as fractured as people could be, yet they gave off such an aura of polished professionalism that few people could ever delve deeper than their glazed smiles.  _What an honour_ , he thought, _to be friends with two boys that would surely change the world, they were not like mortal men for they held far too much fire within them. They would change the world, set it ablaze with their passion, then from the ashes will arise a beautiful world. With Courfeyrac and Enjolras at its head._

Combeferre gave a chuckle, wincing at the lightning that shot through his skull, the only time he could think such pretentious bull was after a long nights drinking, waiting for the sun to dawn.

 

Eponine had turned up to the Les Amis meeting. That always caused a bit of an uproar, as she was exactly as pessimistic as Grantaire except she was fair game, her arguments could be shot down by anybody, not just Enjolras. But more often than not she would be the one chasing the others down, ripping their ideals into shreds.

She wasn’t exactly the Triumvirate’s favourite person and was definitely not Courfeyrac’s favourite person at all. Although they had once spent many a night drinking together, their political ideas clashed in almost everyway. He could barely talk to her about politics without storming out of the room in frustration.

“Why is she here?” hissed Courfeyrac, he had been looking forwards to a calm night at the Musain, settling down the final touches for the protest, support had soared in the last week and the protest would gain traction as it went along.

“Well she turned up and we couldn’t exactly kick her out,” reasoned Combeferre, still diligently typing at his computer, “Why is it that the council is run by a goldfish? This is the third or fourth time they’ve asked for our estimated numbers.”  
Courfeyrac winced, “I’m gonna need a drink,” he slid out of the booth and towards the bar, hoping that Eponine wouldn’t be lurking there.

 

“Whilst all of you are lying about in this ramshackle café planning a protest that won’t work, there are actually people who are dying. People who face racism and sexism and homophobia.” Shouted Eponine, waving her fist at Courfeyrac.

“Well what do you want us to do about it? We’re doing all that we can Eponine, we’re a protest group! What are we protesting at the end of January? Racism and homophobia in the media, what else do you want us to do?” Courfeyrac screamed back, he was almost at his wits end, why was she even here?

“Well it’s easy for you to say that you’re doing all that you can, white boy,”

There was an uncertain stillness in the air. The kind that you get when two fighters have been squaring up for hours and one has finally thrown a punch.

“I am not white.”

“What are you then? One-sixteenth Turkish? One twentieth Chinese? One of those guys who conjure up a coloured background so they can say ‘I have experienced prejudice too’” She snarled back, hands curled into fists as if that first blow really was going to come. Bahorel tensed in his seat but there was some doubt in him, he knew little about Courfeyrac, Les Amis had been started by Enjolras and Courfeyrac after all, if they had accepted him with his bruised skin and his desire to break all stereotypes that surrounded Chinese people, who was he to question them?

“I am French. I was born here I was raised here yet I am not white, is that something that you find difficult to comprehend? Do you find it hard to understand that I may have pale skin but I am not white? That the term ‘people of colour’ encompasses more than black people? Perhaps that is why Bahorel, Enjolras, Jehan and I are never invited to your POC drinking parties? Because I’m not dark enough for you? Whilst I understand that black people are often stigmatised more, when you use the phrase people of colour, you should include all people of colour, not just the people who you deem ‘dark enough’. All of us deserve-,”

“Can you even hear yourself Courfeyrac? You look white, you talk white, you act white, how can you still say that you experience prejudice because of your race?”  
Eponine retaliates, a condescending look passing over her face.

“What is that supposed to mean? Talk white? I talk like how I was taught to talk, I talk French, I act French, I am French. And have I experienced prejudice? My mother, she is in the hospital right now, would you like to ask her if I have experienced prejudice? Or is she not dark enough for you? Let us go, let us go ask her if the brick a man threw at her head was racism? Let’s go, let us wake her up from the coma she has been in for eight years and ask her if she has experienced ‘prejudice because of her race’,” Courfeyrac mocks, tears spilling out of his eyes without his permission, “Or better yet, ask my brother, let us go down to the graveyard and ask him if the knife as we left the mosque together is racism? Was the spit from the man who killed him racism? As he called us p*kis and spat on his body? Or ask the skin bleach in my bathroom ‘is this racism’? That I had to dye myself a colour I was not so that I wouldn’t kill myself? Is that racism? Is that enough for you Eponine? Huh?”

He was screaming now, the entire room had fallen into silence and Enjolras places a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Hey.”

Courfeyrac collapsed onto Enjolras’s shoulder, a shuddering sob coming out of him. “Please give us a minute,” was all that Enjolras said. It wasn’t a suggestion.

They made their way into the backroom, with Courfeyrac struggling to say anything apart from ‘I’m sorry’ as he clung to Enjolras as if he was a plank of wood in the midst of a surging ocean. Fear had scuttled to the forefront of his mind and etched itself onto the features of his face, the mask he had so carefully crafted for himself over the years was slipping and all his scars were bared for everyone to see.

No, not everyone.

Just Enjolras.

Courfeyrac came back to the room, to his body and pushed fear out of the driver’s seat, he could feel Enjolras’s arms wrapped around him, the warmth radiating off him, the wet patches where his tears had stained Enjolras’s hoodie. But he could still feel those oh so familiar fingers trying to peel him away from reality, they hurt so much when they curled around his gut or his heart or his mind. And Enjolras, he was always there, always making it so much worse. How long had Courfeyrac hidden that crush for? Far longer than Grantaire had even known Enjolras but he knew, he knew deep inside that Enjolras would never love him, never ever ev-

“Hey,” Enjolras whispered in Courfeyrac’s ear, “stop over-thinking it, it’s not your fault,”

There was a small nod and Courfeyrac dared to glance at his eyes and he saw himself reflected in them, how pitiful and small he looked.

Enjolras didn’t know how to help Courfeyrac, he could only hold him and hope that was enough. Enjolras had that sudden urge to kiss him until all the sadness went away, well it wasn’t exactly sudden, it was from two weeks ago when Enjolras had held Courfeyrac as he cried. His doctor had always said to never listen to your impulses, especially when you are the insanely impulsive person that is Enjolras, but all he wanted to do was make Courf happy, if only for a little while.

His lips were so soft, they tasted of tears and beer and ever so faintly of cherry lip balm. Enjolras felt like everything was right, as if he had been put in the right place in a jigsaw puzzle, Courfeyrac’s lips against his, he finally felt a sense of ease, as if his fingers belonged in Courfeyrac’s hair and around his waist. He breathed, looking at Courfeyrac to see a confused happiness on his face, “Don’t stop,” he murmured into Enjolras’s neck then their lips met again, it all felt so safe so natural for him to open his mouth and allow Courfeyrac to lick the inside of his mouth.

There was a knock on the door which none of them heard and none of them saw Grantaire pop his head round with a smile, “Courfeyrac alri-,”  
They broke apart to the sound of Grantaire’s tears hitting the floor.  
“Grantaire. This is, this is not what it looks like, I was,” Enjolras stumbled, shaking from being thrown out of his paradise and chasing after Grantaire without a second thought for Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac felt as if he had been thrown out of a plane. He was so happy, so desperately happy that he had drawn himself out of the void with the help of Enjolras’s lips.  
Suddenly the world lurched around him, what had he done? Ruined Enjolras and Grantaire, oh god sweet Jehan, they didn’t deserve this, he loved them he really did but the temptation was too strong and Courfeyrac was too weak. He could hear the uproar from the main room and made his escape, no one noticed him slip through the kitchen and out the back door.

Enjolras was lost; he had gone with his gut and ended up destroying everything. He was running through the Parisian streets hoping that he could at least save one friendship.

Courfeyrac sat in the corner of his shared bedroom trying to get the taste of Enjolras out of his mouth and watching his phone buzz at itself, he had cried so much that he was not sure if he could ever cry again. He had made the mistake of answering one of Jehan’s calls and the wave of abuse that accompanied it had pushed him into that corner, as far away from the knife as possible.

Enjolras fumbled for his metro card as he almost shook from guilt, how could he have done this to Courf? It wasn’t until he sat down on the train did the tears finally come, surging over his face as he muffled his cries with his hand, everyone watched the crying boy with vague worry but no one came to help him.

Courfeyrac had entered that sweet embrace again, he felt so much better now, as if everything could be all right again, but that gut curdling buzz came from the bedroom and he was thrown out of his temporary heaven and the only solution is deeper. More.

Enjolras burst into the flat with all the vigour of a boy who had just run halfway across Paris, the bitter smell of blood slunk its way up his nostrils.

“Courfeyrac?”

He walked further in, tentatively, as if the slightest sound could disturb the peace that had descended. ‘To Enjolras’ was written in Courf’s fancy cursive on a note, propped up by the fruit bowl, Enjolras smiled at the thought of Courfeyrac, and kept smiling until he noticed the copper smudges on the edge of the paper.

“Courfeyrac,” he howled, tearing into the bathroom like a demon. Blood, so much blood, it coated the floor and the walls and all over Courfeyrac. A wail ripped its way out of his throat, a screech as panicked as a she-wolf finding her den empty he curled around Courf, feeling desperately for the gentlest fluttering of a pulse.

There.

Enjolras couldn't remember what he said when he called for an ambulance, only that they found him with his tears diluting the blood on Courfeyrac’s face. He remembers going to hospital and being left in the waiting room as they tried to claw Courfeyrac back to life.  
Enjolras could do nothing but wait, and he could only call one person.

“Combefe-,”

“I don’t have time for your bullshit Enjolras don’t call me again, you’re a piece of shit you know that, a manipu-,”

“Combeferre, please,” Enjolras almost sobbed, trying to keep even a tiny bit of composure, “It’s Courf, please, It’s Courf.”

Combeferre was at the hospital within ten minutes, wrapping his sweat soaked arms around Enjolras, who was still wearing his bloody clothes. The only thing that he said was ‘ _it's my fault, its my fault that Courf’s gonna die_ ’. The rest of Les Amis got there within the next half hour, each sharing a brief hug with Enjolras, all that had happened earlier put aside for this greater adversary, today, death loomed over them like a mother rocking a child, pulling Courfeyrac away from them no matter how hard they tried to keep him in their arms.

The doctor came out, with a harrowed look on his face Enjolras was the last one to react, he just sat there. No tears would even escape his eyes.  
All he did was stand and follow the doctor into the room; there he burned the image of Courfeyrac into his mind, his black curls, brown eyes, and charming smile. Courfeyrac did not look anything like he was sleeping, he slept with a small smile on his lips and a whispering snore, and curled onto his side he would envelop any bedmate with hugs. Courfeyrac would never sleep on his back like that, not with his arms so rigidly by his side and his face contorted into such a pained grimace, death looks bad on you Courfeyrac, please make it go away.

Enjolras doesn’t remember the days after Courfeyrac’s death, not the speech he stumbled through during his funeral, not the drinks afterwards and the sombre retellings of jokes that Courfeyrac had lavished upon them. Oh how they all wished they had treasured him more dearly, how they wished that they could say goodbye.

It was the evening after the funeral, Enjolras sat heavily by the table and wished that he could talk to Courfeyrac one more time, even if it was about something stupid like cat videos or Tumblr, anything.

There it was, Courfeyrac’s last words, suddenly standing out like an angel offering salvation, still in their spot, placed there by bloodied hands.

 

_Dearest Enjolras_

_I am so sorry for what I am about to do, I can no longer live in this terrible world. Please apologise to everyone for me, I couldn’t write them all a letter although I wished I could but my hands are shaking so badly that I can barely get through this. I will try to keep it brief. I am sorry that I ruined everything between us and I hope that one-day you could forgive me, but that will not matter, as I will soon be gone._

_If you take nothing else from my short life, know that you are the most special man that most people will ever have the pleasure to meet, you will go on to revolutionise the world and if I have so much as helped you take one step towards your great destiny I will be terribly pleased. Dare to take risks, believe in yourself, I know that you can achieve everything that you put your mind to, I have seen you do great things already._

_And above all know that I will love you for all the eternity that awaits me after this life._

_Yours truly,_   
_Michel Courfeyrac._

_P.S. Your ADHD medicine is on the shelf, remember to take it when I’m not there to remind you to._

 

That was the final straw. With quiet dignity Enjolras wrote a note of his own, gathered up his belongings and left Paris for good, with only one quick stop. He knelt before Courfeyrac for one last time and gently thumbed the inscription on there.

_Michel Courfeyrac_

_Friend, Lover, Revolutionary. There are not enough words in the world to describe what Courfeyrac means to us._

_Fraternité_

A smile graced Enjolras’ lips, liberté, égalité, fraternité. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

He was still smiling as he boarded the train to London.

 

It was years until Enjolras was brave enough to return to Paris, his skin darkened and toughened from his years travelling, he had spent the last ten years in China, methodically working to improve the human rights conditions. There was a small lump of confusion in his throat when Enjolras stepped off the plane, Paris had moved on faster than he could comprehend, the cobbles where he had once cycled to lectures were shining smooth tarmac, the fond old stone replaced by glass.

Yet it still felt like home.

True, now Enjolras needed a map or two to get around but still. He walked back to that now old cemetery, sweeping his grey hairs back he knelt before Courfeyrac once again. Nothing much had changed. His gravestone had aged, lichen and moss had gathered itself around the corners, there were slightly wilted flowers that had sunken to its knees.

“Courfeyrac,” he whispered, his voice was not as powerful as it had once been, it felt hollow like the ancient trees that shaded the cemetery from the Sun, “Courfeyrac, I’m home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I have some more pain for you! Yay! Please leave a comment about anything at all (talk to me guys I'm lonely :( But seriously please comments are super helpful and amazing and they make me smile loads :))) Also this work is unbeta'd so if there are any mistakes just point them out (nicely pls) 
> 
> And the experience of depression is different in every person, this is just my own, so don't shout at me if it's not the same as yours. The opinions expressed by Courf in this fic are mostly my own frustrations at being sidelined because I'm not 'dark enough' because I'm ethnically Han Chinese, feel free to disagree and talk about it in the comments. Come and talk to me about race issues on my tumblr


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